Wrath
by Riddelly
Summary: Despite his seemingly unnatural abilities, Sherlock Holmes is absolutely human. John's sure of this- until he sees the detective's eyes flash black and his whole world starts to collapse around him. Dark/multiple character death; demon!Sherlock; 3-shot
1. I

**A/N** _So I've had this idea for ages, and finally decided to make it into an actual story a few weeks ago. Though the idea suits a full-length fic better, I had to make this into a 3-shot if I wanted to accommodate it into my schedule, meaning that it's a bit rushed. I think the pace evens out more in the next two chapters (which are indeed finished and waiting to be published), though, so that's something. It was a bit of a challenge for my shipper's mind to not romantically pair Sherlock and John in this, but there's a little bit of implied crap in the final segment, I think. Anyhow, I'll stop talking about the future chapters before they're even published. :P Please review!_

**Rated T** _for violence and language_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**I**

_Would you mind if I hurt you?  
Understand that I need to  
Wish that I had other choices  
Than to harm the one I love  
_~ "What Have You Done," Within Temptation

"You're wrong," Sherlock hisses in frustration, running a thin-fingered hand through his dark, silky curls and whirling around. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing the pale skin of his forearms, and his silver-green eyes burning with frustration. "You're _wrong, _how difficult is that to comprehend? It's like your belief in that wretched—that ridiculous—" He doesn't say God's name aloud, but instead braces his hands against the dusty surface of the table in the center of our flat's living room, breathing heavily and glaring at the wood. "It's the same thing, this _blind faith _in something that never has helped you, that never _will _help you, that you only follow because it _feels right._" The last two words are spat out, and I can actually see saliva fly from his lips as he turns to face me once more.

I watch him evenly, trying my best to stay calm despite the fact that I'm more than a little alarmed. I've never seen him like this before, in such an absolute _rage. _And one seemingly without a source, too—it's not like we haven't debated morality before, like we don't constantly bicker over what's right and what's wrong, whether the fate of the murderer or the victim in a particularly complex case is more important. Perhaps it's the fact that he hasn't eaten for several days that's causing him to get so worked up now, but in any case, I make sure to be very cautious as I begin to speak again.

"All I'm trying to say is—"

"I don't _care _what you're trying to _say!_" he bellows, his facial muscles seeming to tighten, and then the air in my lungs vanishes as his eyes change. At first, I think that they've simply caught the light oddly, but there's no denying the sight before me. It's like his pupils are expanding, filling the iris and sclera, so that I'm staring into twin pools of liquid obsidian, jet-black and framed by his light lashes. I find myself stumbling backwards in shock, half-crashing into the sofa, and by the time I right myself, the bizarre sight has erased itself. He appears entirely normal—if fuming—once more, but there's no denying the sudden chills that won't stop running down my spine.

_What the hell was that? _

He stands with his chest heaving against his too-tight cream-colored shirt, as if waiting for me to make a move. I shake my head numbly, the image of his darkened eyes still burned into my head, and edge towards the door. I have no idea where I intend to go—all I know is that I can't stay here, can't keep arguing him now that I have the full impact of the bizarre vision affecting me. I can't comprehend what the hell it was, and I need space to myself, to figure out if my brain is just seeing things from too little sleep or something's seriously wrong with him. "I'm going out," I declare, grabbing my coat and hoping that my tone can be mistaken for one of fury rather than terror.

Sherlock doesn't make a move to stop me, and a relieved sigh escapes my lips as I half-run down the stairs, not stopping to consider what I'm doing until I'm out the door, greeted by a spray of light rain from the pale grey sky. Finally stopping as I scan the street for cabs, I slip my arms into the sleeves of the jacket, pulling the zipper up tight and trying to regulate my breathing. Maybe I'm overreacting... but, no, I'm a doctor, and I know that there isn't a single reasonable explanation for someone's eyeballs to suddenly go jet-black. And it wasn't a simple flash of darkness, either. The way that the shade had spread from the center, like ink in water... I shiver again, finally catching sight of a taxi and hurriedly waving it towards the curb.

"Where to?" the driver asks gruffly as I slide into the backseat, greeted by warmth and dryness. I slam the door tight shut behind me and keep my gaze fixated on the door of Baker Street, half-expecting Sherlock to emerge from it.

"Uh... St. Bart's," I invent, naming the first location that springs to mind. As he grunts and the cab begins to move, I relax ever so slightly against the seat, the hammering of my heart beginning to die down in my ears. It's a good idea—maybe I can even catch Molly there, ask her if she has any idea what color-changing eyes could possibly indicate. I can imagine how stupid I'll look—_Hey, Molly, sorry to interrupt, but do you have any idea what could cause Sherlock's eyes to go completely black for no apparent reason?—_but the acid fear in my chest is enough to stop me from asking the cabbie to turn around. I'm chilled, chilled to the bone, and my knuckles are white where they're clenched into fists on my lap. What if there is something really wrong with Sherlock? What if it's some rare, bizarre disease… something that only makes an appearance when he's angry? That's the only thing I can connect it with. After all, this fit of fury was unlike anything I've ever seen from him before. I've gotten him frustrated plenty of times, but he's usually kept his cool, tension running under a surface of ice.

This time, though…

He had _exploded. _

The basis of the argument itself seems foggy, as I try to recall it. Nothing special, best I can remember, just yet another feud concerning his lack of _caring _about people. Needless to say, I'm regretting ever bringing it up now, seeing as it caused such an alarming reaction in him.

Or maybe the obsidian eyes have nothing to do with anger at all, and it was just something odd… or even a strange flicker of the light, as I force myself to acknowledge. There's no reason to be so sure that I even saw anything meaningful at all.

The taxi rolls to a halt, and I hand a few pound notes up to the driver without thinking, not even bothering to count out the exact price or ask for change as I step out onto the rain-splattered sidewalk. The wind is picking up, and I quicken my pace as I head inside the hospital building, wincing at the sudden chill of unnecessary air conditioning as the door shuts behind me. I immediately start down the familiar path to Molly's office, my shoes leaving wet footprints on the clean floor. A janitor mopping up a corner of the hall shoots me an annoyed glanced, but I really can't bring myself to feel apologetic just now—I have more important things on my mind, much more important things. I have to hope that Molly isn't on some sort of break—it would be rather awkward to burst in on another pathologist—and even if I do catch her on time, it will hardly be an easy, casual exchange.

When the door comes into sight, I push it open immediately, stepping in and not giving myself an opportunity to second-guess my actions. To my relief, Molly is indeed standing there, bent over a particularly gruesome body—the victim looks like it was torn up by rabid dogs or something of the like. Averting my eyes and swallowing my disgust, I close the door behind me just as she looks up, her wide brown gaze looking rather surprised.

"John? Oh… hello, I wasn't expecting—does Sherlock need something?" She hastily strips off her gore-encrusted rubber gloves and drops them on the metal table next to her before straightening up, her head tilted slightly in curiosity.

"No, actually, I…" I try to shake off my slight irritation at the fact that she immediately assumes my visit has something to do with his wishes—I'm not just Sherlock's servant—but I suppose it is logical. It's not that I have any connection to Molly, myself. "It's… he's been acting a bit oddly… just today, I was wondering if you might have any idea what's going on."

"How oddly?" she questions, voice and face anxious. "Is he alright?"

"I… don't know," I answer honestly.

"Tell me what's wrong. Please."

"At first it was just his temper," I begin carefully, trying to think of a way to phrase the bizarre occurrence so that I don't sound entirely insane. "He was lashing out more than usual… I thought it was hunger or exhaustion, you know? He does have those times where he won't eat or sleep… but then…" I take a deep breath, knowing what the next part will sound like. "He was yelling something at me, and his eyes, they… they turned black."

"Turned _black_?" Molly repeats dubiously, her own eyes widening. "What—what do you mean? They just… darkened, or…?"

"Black," I repeat steadily. "Entirely black… like an oil spill or something. I don't even know… it was insane. It was sort of like his pupils expanded, filled his whole eyes…"

"That's… not normal," she whispers, looking more than a little alarmed. Then she shakes her head quickly, taking a slow, shaky breath. "It's probably nothing, though. A trick of the light… right? You were both worked up…"

"It was real enough for me to come here," I point out bluntly, my fists stiff in the pockets of my jacket. She swallows, and I suddenly feel guilty for frightening her. "Sorry," I mumble, "I don't mean to… well… I'm sorry."

"You must have just been seeing things," she murmurs, and I can tell that she's assuring herself more than me. Shaking her head, she reaches out for her gloves again. "I… I appreciate you coming, but I really doubt that it's anything big… I'm sure you were just confused…"

"Probably," I half-lie. Her perspective is bringing some sense to me, though. What I saw was impossible. Another's point of view helps me realize just how crazy I really do sound—overreacting about what couldn't have been more than a tiny trick of the light. "Thank you," I add, turning to leave, embarrassment welling up in my stomach. "I just… it's stupid, I was… like you said, worked up."

"Maybe you should get something to eat," she offers from behind me. "Feed him, too… I'm sure you'll both feel a lot better on full stomachs. Good luck with him—I'm sorry he's being moody… I know what it's like."

"Right," I agree thoughtlessly, "I'll see you around."

I feel like a bloody idiot. The more I think about it, the stupider I realize I've been acting for the past half hour. There's nothing wrong with Sherlock, nothing beyond the ordinary. I tell myself as much over and over, until I feel normal again, no longer prickling with that bizarre anxiety that comes alongside impossible occurrences.

I suppose the best thing to do now is head back to the flat, apologize to Sherlock, try to get back into the flow of things. The nice, normal flow.

_Normal. _

That word, at the moment, is the most reassuring thing in the world.

* * *

By the time I reach the flat, my mind is on other things. The low flow of money that we've been receiving lately, the milk that needs to be bought, the ever-increasing rain that will probably be a storm by evening, whether or not Sherlock will still be angry at me. My expectations at this point are more or less to find him grouchily sitting in a corner, maybe even with the gun out and aimed at the wall—the thought brings an unwilling, stupidly fond smile to my lips, and it's with that expression in place that I saunter up to the green wooden door, reach out to unlock it and turn the handle. It creaks open immediately, and I duck in, shutting it against the pounding rain. I take a deep breath, preparing myself to confront him.

_Something smells wrong._

I freeze, because the scent sets off warning signals all through my body. It takes me a long moment to identify exactly what it is, but that moment is full of dread, of creeping horror with no identifiable source. His darkened eyes suddenly seem much more real again, and the air seems to waver before me as I slowly take another step across the threshold.

"Sherlock?" I call cautiously.

Nothing.

Then it hits me.

_Blood. _

I'm smelling blood, and that knowledge propels me forward faster, half-running up the stairs, my feet slipping and my head spinning. _Normal _is suddenly very far away, and Molly's logical remarks seem foreign. A thousand imagined scenarios are running through my head, but none of them come near matching what I do find at the top of the stairs, halfway inside the living area of our flat.

Mrs. Hudson is lying face-down, thankfully, so I don't have to see her from the front. The rest is terrifying enough, though—I feel like I've been projected into some sort of bad horror film. Her back and the remains of a light lavender blouse are shredded, a mess even worse than what I saw on the table back with Molly. I gag reflexively, and my head buzzes so furiously that I stumble slightly sideways, holding myself up by gripping the doorframe. I'm seeing double, the sight of the ever-increasing pool of sluggish, deep red blood surrounding her is poisoning my vision, and I have to take a deep breath, choking on the stench that floods my throat.

_Oh, God, Sherlock. _

I call his name, over and over as I trip over her body, making my way into the flat, looking around frantically. It's empty but chaotic—the couch is overturned, the microscope is shattered in the kitchen, and the refrigerator door is hanging open, food and frozen body parts strewn over the table. Patches of what I force myself to acknowledge as Mrs. Hudson's blood are smeared across half the available surfaces, cutting through the yellow curve of the bullet-ridden smiley face on the wall and staining the wood of the coffee table.

_Jesus…_

Then I see the Union Jack pillow that I use so frequently as back support. It's not on the chair where it belongs, but rather thrown carelessly on the ground. I can't resist shuddering as I kneel down, bend in closer to see it—a scarlet handprint, perfectly clear against the blue and red stripes.

If not for this morning's incidents, I would have thought that someone had broken into the flat. But I know the door was locked—_no sign of a forced entry—_and I can't ignore the fact that Sherlock would never be dragged away. I wasn't gone for long—if someone else had attacked, he'd still be here, fighting.

He's the one who's done all this, and I know it.

_Molly, _my mind tells me, _go back to Molly. _My legs are shaky as hell, but I manage to make my way out again, holding my breath as I slide past the landlady's body. Her death is burning like acid in my chest, but I can't focus on it—somehow, the threat of Sherlock is a thousand times more prominent, the fact that he's out there and probably prepared to kill more, that he's killing at all. Sally Donovan's words come back to me suddenly as I stumble my way down the staircase.

_One day, solving crimes won't be enough. One day we'll all be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there._

I can't possibly tell myself that she's right, because that will be too much. Instead, I force my mind to remain completely blank as I gratefully make my way back outside, take a deep breath of moist, rainy air. I don't know what the hell's happening, but one thought is clear in my head—I have to get to Molly. I consider taking a cab, but my paranoia level is suddenly increased, and I can't help but remember Jeff Hope, the man with the pills. I can't afford to risk anything right now. Instead, I take off running, my feet pounding against the slick pavement, the air whistling by and several pedestrians shooting me strange looks as I rush in the direction of St. Bart's. Despite my best efforts, I can't keep my mind clear, and his face keeps coming back to me, the last time I saw it—pale, furious, dark-eyed.

_Dark-eyed. _

The rapid chills have returned, coasting one after another down my spine and assisted by the cold of rain soaking my jacket. My lungs are on fire from running as the minutes drag by, but I don't mind the pain—it helps to distract me. It's almost too soon when I finally reach the hospital, but I don't slow down, tearing through the door and ignoring surprised shouts as I make my way down the hall, not even pausing to savor the dry air until I reach Molly's door, thrust it open and half-limp in, my stomach cramping and my breath rushing rapidly.

She's still there, thank God, and so is, of all people, Detective Inspector Lestrade. She seems to be filling him in on the body that lies between them—the same one as earlier, I note abstractly, making sure to close the door behind me as tightly as possible and standing against it, my chest heaving.

"John," she exclaims, looking first pleasantly surprised, then terrified, the expressions melting into one another in the span of a split second. "What happened? Did Sherlock…"

"Mrs. Hudson," I manage to choke out, ignoring Lestrade's confused stare. "He—she's dead, Molly… he's not there, I think he killed her."

She goes horribly pale, and Lestrade lets out a disbelieving "_What?_"

"Sherlock killed our landlady," I rasp. "Oh, God, there's—there's blood everywhere, the flat is ransacked… I know it was him… I didn't imagine the eyes, there's something wrong with him, there's something _really _wrong with him…"

"_Sherlock _killed her?" he repeats blankly, his deep grey eyes uncomprehending. "What—what are you talking about?"

I just shake my head, pacing around the table and trying to regulate my breathing to a reasonable level. _We have to catch him. Can't let him get another one. _I hear Molly's voice behind me, filling Lestrade in in a hushed murmur.

"He saw something earlier… Sherlock's eyes flashed black, completely black. Neither of us have any idea what it could be, but maybe it's related somehow… some sort of obscure psychopathic illness…?"

"Could be," the policeman agrees grimly, swallowing his shock. "Did you check the internet?"

"No," Molly admits, but I'm already at the computer parked on a table in the corner of the room, clicking open a web browser, shakily typing into the search engine.

_Black eyes anger murder._

It's a pathetic string of keywords, but the best my frantic mind can come up with at the moment, and I tap my foot impatiently against the linoleum flooring as the page of results slowly loads. I feel Lestrade and Molly come up behind me, but I don't turn around to face them, instead scan the list of dark blue page links that have appeared.

Makeup tutorials, racist articles, scientific examinations on how rage might induce pupil dilation…

"Is that it?" Lestrade questions, reaching over my shoulder to indicate the latter.

"No." I give my head a sharp, quick shake. "It wasn't just dilation. They were _all black._"

"All black?" he repeats, his voice wavering for the first time. I ignore him and continue scrolling, moving onto the second page and hissing in frustration when I begin to get repeat results. There must be something in here _somewhere…_

"There," Molly breathes suddenly when I move to the third page. "Second from top."

I focus on the words—_demonic possession—_and a chill slides down my spine. As unlikely as I know it to be, I can't resist clicking on the words, even as Lestrade's skeptical snort sounds. I expect a website with a pure black background and red words in some sort of scary-movie font, but what I get is a dull white page, sans-serif text that alarms me in its matter-of-fact brevity.

_If you're reading this, if you have one on your tail, it's already too late. Give it up. Some people suggest rock salt, pentagrams, and holy water, but take my advice and accept that you're dead. The best you can do is run, but even that won't last forever. These things are damn strong, and they'll hunt you down and kill you and there's nothing you can do to put it off. _

_You know it's a demon when the eyes flash black in anger. The sight's unmistakable. They'll also probably leave a trail of chaos behind—murder, mutilation, the whole damn package. If the thing's after you, give up for the good of others. These are the lost souls of people who used to be human, and maybe this one just has a grudge against you. Let it do its work and save the rest of us if you've got any heart left in you. _

That's all there is. I stare unblinkingly, and the utter silence filling the room is shattered only when Lestrade gives a light, clearly disbelieving cough.

"John… you know this is rubbish. Meant to scare kids or something. There's no way that a _demon's _in him. Hell, those things aren't even real."

"Says who?" I snap back. My voice is sharp, because, like it or not, the words really do strike a note with me. They fit perfectly—the unexpected eye color change, Mrs. Hudson's death (my stomach sinks at the memory), Sherlock's disappearance.

_If the thing's after you, give up for the good of others. _

Is he after me? The very thought is terrifying, and I try to push it out of my mind, taking a deep breath. "Rock salt, it says," I begin softly, turning around to face the other two. "Rock salt, pentagrams, and holy water."

"You aren't serious?" Lestrade scoffs. "A bunch of witchcraft nonsense isn't going to protect you from a psychopath! I know these people, and trust me, there's nothing magical about them."

"Greg," Molly intones gently, but he plows on.

"For God's sake, the man's probably out there looking for others to butcher—I've known Sherlock for longer than either of you, and I'd like to believe he's a good man, but if he's cracked, he's cracked! We have to do something about that—and by _something, _I don't mean _salt, _I mean men and guns and _action—_"

His words are disrupted by a bang as the door suddenly flies open. I whip around, my heart leaping to my throat, and throw my arms defensively in front of me in what I know to be a pointless action. But in the few moments that it takes for me to process what I'm seeing, I realize that what we're facing isn't a threat at all, but rather the results of one.

Sergeant Donovan is hunched over, her hands clutching her stomach, and I can see the horrible dark crimson stain spreading around them, marring the white fabric of her shirt. Her face is starkly pale underneath its usual light brown tone, and her eyes wide and foggy as her gaze locks with Lestrade's. Slowly, she takes a shaky, stumbling step forward, then folds forward, falling to her knees on the ground. Her hands release to break her fall, and the nausea rising inside my stomach reaches a crescendo as the blood begins leaking onto the floor—I can tell that it's only her shirt that's holding her insides in, and it's barely doing the job.

"Donovan?" Lestrade demands, the name thick with horror.

"It's… Sherlock," she manages to rasp, her voice faint and scratching against her throat. "He's… here… his—his eyes…" Then her form folds sideways, drops to the ground, and I have to reach out, grip Lestrade's shoulder to stop him from bolting over to her. The action is slow, like moving through molasses, and everything I do seems to have crept to a snail's pace.

"John…"He tries to shake me off, but I don't let up, my teeth clamped tightly together. "Let me go, we need to…"

"There's no use," Molly half-gasps.

"No—she just… we were here to check up on—on the body…" He gestures vaguely towards the body still lying on the slab in the middle of the room, still staring in horror at Donovan's corpse. "She didn't… why would he come here…?"

_Sherlock… he's… here…_

"We have to go," I hiss suddenly, snapping out of my frozen trance and gripping both of their arms. "She wasn't making things up—come on, is there a back door or something out of here?"

"Yes, right—here," Molly whimpers, hurrying to the other side of her room. I half-run after her, not loosening my hold on either of them as she reaches a door and slams her whole side against it, disregarding the wailing alarm that fills the air as soon as it opens. "Emergency exit," she offers by way of explanation. The three of us tumble out, and my clutch slips as the rain surprises me with its sudden, drenching iciness. I choke on the freezing air, and lose my balance for a moment on the slick pavement before Lestrade steadies me.

"The police cruiser," he calls over the rush of the heavy rainfall. "It's right out here…" He waves a trembling hand, and Molly leads the way, sloshing through puddles. I try not to think about how my mind is whirling, how everything is falling apart around me—I've reverted to my soldier instincts, and my only focus is to keep moving forward, to stay at a steady pace. Because I've somehow managed to drag Molly and Lestrade into this, and I can't let them down now.

After a few seconds, I locate the police car that Lestrade mentioned, and he steps ahead of me, fumbling with the handle until it clicks open.

"Where are we going?" he questions swiftly as he jumps in and cranks on the engine. Molly darts around and slips into the left front seat, leaving me to settle for the back. The dryness only increases the chill enveloping me, seeming to freeze the rain on my skin and the wet hair dripping down my neck. I slam down the lock of the door as soon as I'm inside and hold it there, as though such an action keeps us safer somehow.

"Away," I reply simply. "As far away as possible. You saw that website… it said we have to run."

"You believe it's a… a _demon, _then?" he asks with a sort of roughness, his jaw set as he grips the steering wheel. Molly glances towards him, her features delicate and still, but I can see the tears welling up in her eyes and the tremor in her hands, which are delicately folded in her lap. She's just as terrified as I am, and Lestrade almost definitely is as well, judging by the swift movement of his chest.

"You heard Donovan," I reply simply. "Black eyes."

"God, yeah… poor Sally…"

"Poor Mrs. Hudson," I retort, stung a bit. It's not that I'm not stunned and saddened by the police sergeant's death, but it's obvious enough that Sherlock would want to kill her if he did decide to go on a murder spree—after all, she was always an absolute bitch to him.

Still, I can't let myself believe that this _is _Sherlock. It's got to be a demon, just some demon inside of him… the real Sherlock, the one I know—he's not evil, not twisted, not a _creature of Hell. _And even if the thought of such a fantastical thing inhabiting his body seems admittedly a bit far-fetched, it's what I have to rely on. It's almost too good to be true, though, the thought that it's not really him, that the real Sherlock is hidden in that body somewhere…

I'll be lost if he's gone.

"Just stop it!" Molly cries, clearly detecting the aggressiveness in my voice. "Their deaths were both horrible, okay? What we have to do now—" She takes a sharp, shaky breath, and I see a single tear slip from one of her large eyes, down her flushed cheek. "What we have to do now is get ourselves out of here safely, away from… away from Sh-Sherlock."

The way she stutters over her name reminds me—she's infatuated with him. God, this must be awful for her, almost as much so as it is for me. _I'm sorry, Molly… I'm sorry that this is happening to you… happening to all of us. _I don't speak aloud, though, just nod to myself, deciding to keep quiet and let Lestrade handle the driving. Tension is undeniably running high between all three of us, and I don't know how long we'll be stuck together, so it's probably best if I remain silent for the time being. Trying to distract myself, I turn around and stare through the back window, half-gripping the seatbelt that I don't quite pull over myself and squinting to get a glimpse of the fading shape of St. Bart's.

The rain is pounding down, blurring my view, but I can just barely make it out—a slim figure, without the usual black coat, standing there in pale shirt and dark trousers. His hands are extended slightly, held out from his sides, and I can see all too clearly that they're dripping with scarlet. His eyes also burn—for a moment, my heart skips, because they're just as I remember them always being, green-tinted grey-blue and icy, but then his lashes twitch, and they change, suddenly deep, deep black.

Sucking in a breath, I turn around again, forcing myself to keep my gaze fixated on the road ahead.


	2. II

**A/N** _Again, I'm not quite as happy with this segment as I could be, but the third one flows quite nicely, IMHO. Meanwhile, here's part two. I'd absolutely love a review or two, if you'd be so kind :3__  
_

**Thanks to...** _[no reviewers last chapter, unfortunately]_** _  
_**

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**II**

_Would you mind if I killed you?  
Would you mind if I tried to, 'cause you have turned into my worst enemy  
You carry hate that I don't feel  
It's over now, what have you done… what have you done now?_  
~ "What Have You Done," Within Temptation

I don't tell Lestrade and Molly about my most recent glimpse of Sherlock, which is probably for the best—they seem scared enough as it is, and I'm not particularly keen on making them yet more skittish. I can afford to keep it to myself, I _deserve _to keep it to myself—I'm the one who brought them into this miserable mess in the first place, after all.

We drive for hours, and Lestrade never shows any sign of stopping. My hope is that he can recognize this to be beyond the usual police behaviors, the dictations of which are sure to never cover supernatural incidents. Demons aren't something that the legal force is used to dealing with, and that's only to be expected. I can't help but feel like I'm in some sort of horrible movie, though, as we make our way through the rain, outside of London, eventually cruising along the countryside and throwing up trails of muddy earth in our all-too-speedy wake.

I have too much time to think about what's happened, and when I do, I have to admit that I just feel more and more sick. _Sherlock killed Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson's dead. Donovan's dead. I'm on the run from a demon, and the only people I have with me are Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper. _Every time the words cross my mind, they seem to carry a new variant of surprise with them, even long after such an emotion should have been long exhausted. It's unbelievable, and probably will remain so for a long time, even after this whole ordeal is over.

That is, if I survive it to its finish.

That's another thing I have to deal with—the fact that I might not, even probably _won't _make it out of this. My two partners and I are all in equal amounts of danger, and those amounts are far from meager. I can't help but recall the website and its chilled warnings, promises that we have next to zero chances of surviving this.

And, of course, I also can't help but be burdened by anxiety considering Sherlock himself—if he really is there, if he was awake for the possession and had to watch as his own hands tore apart the landlady and the policewoman. Had to watch as I drove away, staring out the window at him and not making a single move to save him from the creature inside his own body…

Or, even worse, the idea that Sherlock himself is a demon, that the man I thought I knew never really did exist, was simply a persona put forth by a creature of Hell. Such a thing twists my heart and stomach to even begin to imagine, so I do my best to keep it out of my mind, trying to concern myself with other matters for the duration of the car ride. And there are copious other matters to focus on, so the task is far from difficult.

It's started to get late when the gas meter finally begins to show our levels to be seriously low. It's only then that I speak up, my voice dry from half a day of disuse.

"We need to stop soon… find somewhere to stay for the night."

Molly nods in sleepy agreement, and Lestrade gives a low, reluctant grunt of acknowledgement. "There should be a motel somewhere up here," he says, his voice dark. "My wife and I… took a vacation in this direction last spring, and had to stop for overnight because of bad weather."

I don't miss the inflection of '_my wife,_' and I realize for the first time that he's leaving family behind—a wife, and multiple children, too, if Sherlock's past deductions can be trusted (though, at this point, I'm far from sure that they can). I've taken it all away from him, and they're left in danger now—it strikes me that perhaps the Detective Inspector is actually the bravest of us all, to be able to abandon his loved ones with the knowledge of a rampant psychopath nearby them. Perhaps he's actually _hoping _that Sherlock will pursue us, to keep the trail off his family.

_If so_, I force myself to accept, _his wish will almost definitely come true. _

"Great," I murmur, keeping my doubts shoved tight down in my chest and taking out my mobile phone for the first time. I only have a bar and a half of 3G internet, but it rises to two even as I watch, and I decide that we're probably entering the network area of the motel Lestrade mentioned. Tapping open the browser, I enter the words _demon attack survival, _admittedly feeling incredibly stupid while I do it. I navigate my way to a page that seems to include two of the things mentioned on the original webpage—rock salt and holy water. There are some other things, too—apparently iron wards the creatures off, as well as some sort of star-shaped symbol painted onto the ground, referred to as a 'Devil's Trap,' and they can be exorcised with a complex-looking incantation, one that none of us could dream of pronouncing.

"It looks like our best bets are to get our hands on some holy water, iron, and rock salt," I announce just as we pull into the gravelly driveway of what looks to be a three-star motel at best. The neon sign is flickering slightly in the rain, but at least the light leaking out from under the curtained windows seems welcoming.

"_Holy water?_" Lestrade repeats incredulously, switching off the engine. "Yeah, and we have a hell of a chance of getting our hands on that!"

"Salt and iron could be easier," Molly offers meekly. "There's probably a gas station nearby, and it's likely to have—"

"Don't ask," the policeman sighs, holding up a hand. "Yes, I'll go get some if it makes you happy, just don't think that I'm going to paint my walls with it or whatever. I'm just fine with accepting the fact that we're dealing with an entirely normal psychopath—if an insanely dangerous one. You and John grab us a couple of rooms, I'll be back in a quarter hour."

"Thanks," she tells him gratefully, but I keep my face cold. If he doesn't believe in the demonic aspect to our situation after all, then we could be in even more danger than I originally thought.

I step out of the car, greeted by air that's cool and misty but no longer rain-filled. My stomach, still slightly nauseated, settles as I gratefully fill my lungs, and Molly does the same, shutting her door behind her. The headlights of the car flare up as Lestrade pulls out of the gravel driveway, and we both watch as he swerves around and recedes into the darkness, until we're left standing in damp darkness with only the whisper of crickets filling the silent night air. We must be awfully far away from London by now—I can barely see the faintest hint of city lights in the far distance. Far away from Sherlock, hopefully.

I exhale, my breath collecting in a moist cloud, and tuck my hands into my jacket pockets, turning to Molly. "Should we try to get a couple of rooms, then?"

She nods, adjusting her ponytail. "D'you have money?"

"Yeah." I finger my wallet as I lead the way up to the door of the motel. Insects crawl around the amber-tinted light, and I have to resist wincing, shouldering my way inside. The radiator plugged into one wall is incredibly noisy, a fact which strikes me as soon as I set foot inside, and I have to raise my voice to communicate properly with the sleepy-looking desk clerk. "Can we get three of your rooms for a night?"

He squints, looking confused, then mumbles, in an accent that sounds vaguely Cockney: "There're only two've you."

"We have another coming soon," I explain through gritted teeth, slipping out my credit card and setting it on the desk in between us, making sure to hold it down with my fingers. "Do you have the rooms?"

He raises an eyebrow, scrunching down his brows and giving me a long, moody look before nodding and swiping the card out from under my fingers. I whisk my hand back reflexively, scowling, but he just runs it through an old-looking scanner and hands it back to me, the tip of his tongue clenched between his teeth. "Rooms ten t' twelve. Keys," he adds, gesturing to a wicker basket on the desk next to him. I rummage through the pile of old-fashioned metal keys, silently wondering what the hell kind of security this is supposed to be, before finding the three labeled _10, 11, _and _12. _Tossing _12 _to Molly, I shove the others in my pocket and offer an awkward sort of shrug of thanks to the cashier, who slumps back into a glaze-eyed sculpture of exhaustion.

"C'mon," I murmur to Molly, and we start down a small hallway leading off the room. The doors we past seem silent, devoid of so much as snoring, and, remembering the lack of cars in the parking lot, I can't help but wonder if we're the only people here. Such a prospect seems somehow chilling, but I shake it off, instead pushing open the door of room ten and gesturing that Molly come in. "We can sit in here till Lestrade comes back," I offer. "No use splitting up."

"Okay… thanks…" I step aside to let her in, then shut the door behind us and lock it for good measure. We both sit restlessly on the end of the single twin-sized bed, her watching the window and me watching her. Multiple minutes pass like that in silence, and I gaze as headlights from the road play over her face, the shadows under her eyes, the anxious downturn of her mouth.

"Are you doing alright?" I ask gently after a while. "With… all of this. I didn't mean to drag you into it…"

"No, I'm—I'm glad you did." She spends about half a second trying to smile, then gives up with a sigh. "I'd rather be here than back there and in danger. It's just… hard, you know…? I mean, it's _Sherlock. _I thought…" Her voice cracks, and she takes a long, shaky breath. "I thought I knew him."

"So did I."

Luckily, the potentially awkward conversation concerning the man that we both adore so much is cut off by the roar of Lestrade's engine as the police car pulls back into the drive. "I'll get him," Molly offers hurriedly, and she's off the bed and out the door before I can object. I can only appreciate my solitude for a few seconds, though, before they're both returning, Molly laden with a plastic shopping bag.

"I hope you two are satisfied, because the cost of all this piled up quickly," the grey-haired man mutters as the coroner sets the bag down on the bed and tilts it so that its contents spill out. There are two small but heavy-looking sacks of salt, as well as three handheld cultivators, clearly meant for gardening. "Iron," he explains, waving his hand in their direction. "But they also seem like they might be useful for sticking in the face of a particularly violent _human, _as I do believe we're up against."

"Greg…" Molly whispers.

He shakes his head, denial vivid in his dark grey eyes. But despite that, I can tell by his effort to procure the weapons that he believes at least a little bit in the demon that we're dealing with. He wouldn't have bought all this just so that Molly and I could be satisfied. Lestrade is a policeman, and his work comes first for him; it's something special that's he's left London for this. It strikes me then that he's _afraid _of Sherlock, possibly even more than me, and with good reason—he's known him longer, is more aware of his capabilities—and his ruthlessness, too. I don't know how many crimes the two have collaborated on, but I'm positive that the Detective Inspector has had ample enough exposure to Sherlock's methods to render himself properly terrified now.

"Thanks," I mutter, hefting the handle of one of the cultivators and swinging it vaguely back and forth. It's absurd to imagine ever _using _the thing, on Sherlock or anyone else—for God's sake, it's a _gardening tool, _not meant to… to bludgeon or wound people, as was Lestrade's clear intention upon purchasing it. I don't put it down, though, instead reaching out to lift one of the bags, as well. "Rock salt?" I question.

"'Course."

"It'd probably best if we dumped a trail of it inside each of our doors… by the windows, too. The website said that demons can't cross salt lines…"

Molly nods, her eyes wide and fearful, but Lestrade just shakes his head. "You two feel free. I'll be fine with the _gardening tool._" His voice twists the words sarcastically, and my stomach clenches with frustration. I'm not going to force him into anything, though. If he ends up injured, it's his own fault—and hopefully Sherlock, demon or not, doesn't have any feud with him. _Hopefully. _

"That's your choice," I tell him tightly. "We should probably get to our rooms, though… sleep so that we can get out of here as soon as possible in the morning."

"Alright, enjoy your salt, you two. Someone else had better drive, tomorrow, though, I can't imagine that I'll get any sleep whatsoever."

"Where will we be driving _to, _though?" Molly asks softly. A moment spans by in silence—none of us know the answer to that. We don't have any plan other than to get as far away from Sherlock as possible, but we can't run forever. Sooner or later, we'll have to confront him… it's inevitable.

"Any town that we can find," I finally decide aloud. "We can see if we can contact Sherlock's brother from there. He's high in the government and keeps close tabs on Sherlock; if anyone will be able to subdue him, it's Mycroft."

"It's a plan," Lestrade agrees forcefully, and I take that as indication to head out, making sure not to forget the salt and the cultivator while dropping his room key on the bed. Molly trails after me, bidding him a quiet goodnight, and I make sure to get into my room before she fully enters the hallway, not wanting to engage in another stilted conversation.

It's relieving to have space to myself, even if the room that I quickly shut the door of is physically identical to Lestrade's, but I don't waste any time sitting around. Right away, I tear open the salt bag, dumping a generous amount along the crack of my doorway. It's hard to believe that this will be enough to restrain him, but it's the only hope I have, so I go with it anyways. Then I move to the windowsill, coating it with the white grains and then stepping back, tossing the empty bag into a nearby rubbish bin. It's practically impossible to believe that this will really protect me, but it's honestly the only hope I have at this point.

I don't have any pajamas to change into, so I suffice to set the cultivator on the bedside table and kick my shoes off, settling onto the mattress with a long sigh. There's no light to turn off and no way to block the amber glow from the parking lot, and I end up pulling a pillow over my head and not bothering with blankets. At first, I'm doubtful that there's any way I can get a minute of rest this way, but surprisingly soon I find myself drifting into exhaustion, which then makes way for restless sleep.

* * *

_"Jesus, get away from me!_"

I bolt straight up, reflexively lunging for the cultivator next to me even before I process where I am. I stumble out of bed, blinking against the darkness and trying to get my bearings, and manage to shakily make my way to the hallway door, hesitating at the thought of breaking the salt line. My head is spinning wildly, and only in my brief second of stillness do I realize that what I heard was Lestrade's voice. That's enough to propel me out the door, scattering the pale crystals all over the floor as I turn and begin to hammer on his door, makeshift weapon still clutched in one hand. To my half-relief and half-dismay, it falls straight open, and I dash in to see Lestrade sitting up in his bed, face deadly pale and extended arm clutching his own small cultivator.

"He was here," he gasps, shivering. "Here, right now—his eyes…"

"Where did he go?" Molly cries, and I jump before realizing that she's right behind me, shoving strands of her hair—for once hanging down instead of held up in a ponytail—out of her staring eyes. "Is—is he still here?"

Lestrade shakes his head, inhaling slowly. "No, he—I… I stabbed at him…" He waves his cultivator-holding hand vaguely. "He sort of snarled, then ran off… but his _eyes… _God, I've never seen anything so… _jet _black, Molly—John… you have to believe me…!"

"I believe you," I promise grimly. "Come on, we have to go. Have to get out of here. If he knows we're here…" My heart is racing, and I can feel it in my throat, causing my words to slur slightly with haste. "Then he can come back for us. We can't keep running… we went miles, if he managed to catch up to us here, he can anywhere."

"What about… the other Mr. Holmes?" Molly questions, her voice half-timid. "Weren't we going to ask him if he could—?"

"Mycroft can't help," I mutter, "not at this point. Sherlock's on the loose, we're in the countryside, even he doesn't have operatives stationed out here. We have to trap him somehow…" I reach into my pocket, pull out my mobile and press the middle button, waiting impatiently as the screen lights up. My internet window is still open to the website stocked with anti-demon information. "We're going to have to exorcise him."

"_Exorcise him?_" Molly repeats, trembling. "How?"

"We'll need paint," I begin slowly. "There's a symbol—it's not too complex—just a pentagram, it looks like, with some other stuff around the edges… if we can paint that on a ceiling or floor somewhere, it should root him in place. And there's a chant here… if we read it, he'll be… the demon will be expelled." The words are dry, foreign, and I have to detach myself from their meaning, pretend that I'm not voicing what might be Sherlock's death sentence. "It's crazy, but… it's our only hope. And I guess this website's advice worked so far—he did go to the one room with no salt lines, and the iron seems to have scared him off." I swallow roughly and look up, to see that both of the others seem to be in agreement.

"There's a load of old warehouses," Lestrade announces softly, "nearby the gas station. That place was twenty-four hour—we should be able to pick up some paint there, then head out to one of the warehouses… I'm sure they were locked, but they should be easy enough to bust through." I can tell that it's painful for him to speak so casually of unlawful actions, and I meet his dark eyes for a moment, trying to silently communicate my appreciation, before turning around to the doorway.

"Let's go."

They follow me, still sleep-dazed, as I round the corner of the hallway and head out the front doors. The desk attendant is asleep now, snoring lowly, and I see no reason to wake him up as we head to our car, though I do have to wonder how he managed to sleep through Lestrade's ruckus. My own eyes are beginning to ache with exhaustion, but the rest of my body is practically alight with energy, and I quickly volunteer to drive, taking the keys that Lestrade tosses me and settling into the front seat of the car. They both hop in the backseat, and I start the engine up, lights illuminating two dewy paths through the darkness as I turn around and pull us out onto the road.

"Just head forward, then take left at the first fork," the Detective Inspector directs me from the backseat. "The store should only be a couple of minutes from there."

I follow his instructions mutely, and can practically feel the tension radiating through the vehicle. Luckily, I don't have to endure the silence for too long—just like he promised, we're outside a dingy-looking gas station what feels like instants later.

"I'll go buy it," Molly offers, jumping out of the car before either of us can stop her. I don't turn the engine off, but instead lean on the steering wheel, watching her slim figure step inside and move up and down the aisles, lifting an object here and there, then quickly heading to the cash register with a small metal bucket in one hand and a thick paintbrush in the other. I can hear Lestrade's breathing from the backseat, but I don't acknowledge him, just sit there, occasionally glancing out the window when I imagine a flash of pale skin or dark eyes out of the corner of my vision. My foot is tapping anxiously—_come on, Molly—_and by the time she's in the car, I've worked myself into such a state of agitation that I absolutely floor it, shooting the car forward.

"Slow down!" Lestrade hisses, and Molly yelps in surprise, but I shake my head, shivering lightly. I feel like a child in a game of tag, sprinting as fast as possible from an invisible attacker, my mind twisted in frustration at the fact that he could be _anywhere, _could appear at any time…

"How far is it to the warehouses?" I demand, but my words are unnecessary—the gas station has barely disappeared into the murky darkness when I see a large, grey building looming before us. I park the car instantly, then yank out the keys and open the door.

"Move, _quick,_" I instruct the others, and, to my relief, they obey without question. Lestrade lifts a couple of the handheld cultivators, and Molly grabs the paint and the paintbrush. I quickly check that my phone is still in my pocket and open to the right page, then hurry into the field of wet grass that the side of the road melts into, making sure that I can only hear two sets of footsteps behind me.

I can't help but remember the last time I ran this fast—from Baker Street to St. Bart's. I haven't contacted anyone in London ever since then, and wonder vaguely whether Mrs. Hudson is anxious about my location—when I realize that she's not anxious about anything, that she'll never be anxious about anything again, because Sherlock _killed _her. The image of her broken body on the floor prompts me to go faster, and I do, my legs pumping desperately as the other two scrabble behind me in their effort to keep up. The paint can thuds against Molly's leg, and I grit my teeth, using the sound as a metronome, forcing myself to keep a steady pace as the warehouse grows nearer and nearer.

The building's door seems to materialize in front of me all at once, and I throw myself against it, sucking in a relieved breath as it bangs open without delay, the rusty padlock coming apart immediately. The double doors, at least ten feet high each, slowly creak away to reveal a long stretch of musty darkness. Knowing that my chance of finding anything is next to nothing, I still step in and begin to feel along the walls for a light switch. After thirty seconds or so of running my fingers along cold, damp wall, I finally manage to locate something promising, and flick it up hopefully. A few rusty bulbs whine to life on the ceiling, illuminating a yawning, empty room a few hundred yards long. The floor is cracked concrete, dirty-looking but workable for painting.

"I can paint it," I say immediately, taking out my phone and setting it on the ground while kneeling myself, wincing as the cold of the floor seeps through my trousers. "You two, keep guard. Let me know if you hear or see anything."

"Okay," Molly agrees meekly, dropping the paint bucket and brush next to me. I nod my thanks, then grab the top of the bucket, forcefully pulling it off to reveal that it's full of sickeningly crimson-colored liquid. I make myself ignore the churning of my stomach, instead dipping in the brush and briefly consulting my phone's screen before I begin to trace a wide, dark circle, dripping wet on the freezing ground. I try not to think about the fact that we aren't even sure Sherlock will come for us here, instead promising myself that he _has _to, that he's done nothing but chase after us so far. Of course, there's a chance that he knows the function of a Devil's Trap, too, and is intelligent enough to avoid it…

_No. _I can't afford to think that way, have to promise myself that I'm doing the right thing. If nothing else, we can chase him into the circle—after all, Lestrade still has the iron cultivators—or even improvise. This is better than nothing, anyways. _It has to be better than nothing. _

I continue to paint in long, steady strokes, slowly filling in a circle and setting to work on long, crisscrossing lines to form the pentagram in the center. My arms are beginning to ache from the strain and the awkward angle, hunched over on the ground, but I force myself to keep going, knowing that I can't afford to stop, not at this point.

As I start on the second leg of the star shape, I scroll down on my phone, taking a look at the exorcism chant. It still seems near-impossible to pronounce, but I suppose I might be able to if I really try. And I'll have to really try. Lestrade or Molly might know a little Latin, but the chance is sparse, and I'm really more confident doing it myself. Besides, I feel for some reason like it _should _be me, as ridiculous as that is. Like I'm somehow the reason that Sherlock has been set upon everyone.

Of course, I am, in a way. If only I hadn't gotten him angry… then I'd be fine right now. We'd all be fine. Sherlock and I would be back at Baker Street in our respective beds, after an evening during which the fire would definitely be lit to ward off the chill of the rain… Mrs. Hudson might even come up to keep us company, her eyes light and merry as Sherlock tested a new composition on his treasured violin… the whole world would be blocked out, just for that moment, leaving the three of us in our little bubble of our family, warm and carefree in 221b Baker Street…

I give my head a small jerk, dispelling the uselessly sentimental thought. For once, I understand Sherlock's determination not to sense emotion—feelings seem useless right now, when I'm kneeling in a cold warehouse, painting a Devil's Trap in blood red. Mrs. Hudson's dead and Sherlock's a demon, it must be three or four in the morning and I'm in the middle of the English countryside, in an abandoned warehouse with Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade guarding the doors as I prepare for our supernatural visitor. And God knows that even if, by some miracle, I do make it out of here alive, there's no way in hell that I'm going back to Baker Street. That place has too many memories for me, and it'll be horrible without Sherlock there.

Life without Sherlock… I don't even want to think about it. That's a reality that I've been trying not to face—he's going to be _gone. _I'm going to be alone all over again, back to desperately searching for a flatmate. No more crime-solving, only the vague threat of that Moriarty character on the horizon, possibly Mycroft keeping tabs on me…

I'm going to be normal again.

And I _hate _that idea so damn much, for no identifiable reason, that I have to immediately counteract it with internal promises that it's not necessarily my future. After all, I've made connections with the police—they might want me to stay in touch, maybe even get a role on one of their medical teams. Of course it won't be the same without being a consulting detective's assistant, but… well…

It's all I have to hold onto at this point.

Unless—and I force myself to hold onto this possibility—unless, somehow, Sherlock really is there, buried under that demon. I could deal with that, I think—if we exorcised it successfully, I'd be alright with Mrs. Hudson and Donovan dead, with both of us probably in legal trouble, with Baker Street half-destroyed and two of my best friends emotionally scarred. I could hold on, so long as I had Sherlock. The thought of being with him again makes me giddy. Of seeing his curving smirk, the knowing glint in those silver-green eyes, far from oily jet-black…

_"John!" _Molly screams.

I spring up, dripping paintbrush dropping from my hand, and whirl around just in time to see Lestrade and Molly forcing their doors shut, standing with their backs against them as a massive _bang _rattles the frame.

He's here.

"Finish the damn symbol!" Lestrade roars frantically, and I unfreeze all at once, though my veins still feel clouded with horror. Shaking uncontrollably as another crash rings out from the other side of the warehouse, I turn around, reaching down to retrieve the paintbrush.

But my foot lashes out an inch too close to the paint can.

I watch it topple as if in slow motion, the multiple gallons of red liquid sloshing out, drowning my half-completed Devil's Trap, consuming the floor like a viscous creature of dark, odorous crimson, smothering the cement and barely leaving a trace inside the bucket.

"No—no!" I'm shouting, but it's useless. I can't bring the paint back into it. It's spilled all over the floor, and now we have no way of holding Sherlock back, nothing to do but to try and keep him restrained at the door. The car is a half mile away—there's nothing to do.

We're trapped.

A third massive, rattling bang hits the two doors, and they fly open for the briefest moment before Lestrade and Molly force them shut again. Just long enough for me to see his figure, see his eyes.

Black as tar.


	3. III

**A/N** _Whee, finally onto the part that I'm actually happy with! XD Here we actually a couple of the SPN characters (guess who it could possibly be), so that's refreshing. And... yeah. There are actually an amazing amount of alerts on this story, so if each of you would possibly be kind enough to drop a review before you go just letting me know what you thought... I'd love it. Also, this is indeed the last chapter, so yes. Enjoy~__  
_

**Thanks to...** _SuperSonicBeatrice, TheForsakenWolf86_**_  
_**

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

**III**

_I will not fall, won't let it go, we will be free when it ends  
I, I've been waiting for someone like you  
But now you are slipping away, why, why does fate make us suffer  
There's a curse between us, between me and you  
_~ "What Have You Done," Within Temptation

"Don't let him in!" Lestrade shouts furiously, his arms straining as he backs himself up against the door. He pins it in place with his elbows, using his free hand to pull out a pistol previously concealed at his waist. _Of course, _I realize suddenly, of course he had a gun all this time. So we're not entirely unprepared, then. That's something. I ignore the nagging voice at the back of my mind reminding me insistently that bullets won't do anything to harm Sherlock—after all, it's easily enough drowned out by the desperate mental chaos consuming the rest of my thoughts. His eyes, even being on the other side of the door, seem to burn into my chest, and I stand frozen, staring blankly as Lestrade and Molly struggle to keep him back. He must be damn _strong, _I register numbly, to be able to pose such a significant challenge against their combined weight.

"John!" Molly cries, "help us!" Her expression is frantic, strands of hair caught between her lips and sticking to her flushed cheeks as she pushes against the double doors with all the strength of her slim body. I blink, then jolt slightly, stumbling backwards and looking around the warehouse. My anxiety spins my head and twists my stomach, but I force myself to revert to my soldier state, taking a deep breath, shoving thoughts of my flatmate—_former flatmate—_away from my focus, and dashing over to the nearest stack of cardboard boxes stacked in the corner of the warehouse. I secure my arms around one, lugging it over to the doors and pushing it up against the crack. I make sure to keep my eyes carefully averted from the doorway itself, in case by any chance Sherlock finds a way to get a look at me again. I can't stand to look at his eyes.

I can't.

Because just their image, so dark and _inhuman, _sends a shiver down my spine—a shiver that I force myself to ignore as I dash over and grab another box. I've got no idea what the containers hold, but they're damn heavy, and the struggle involved in moving them from the wall to the door as fast as possible luckily distracts me.

"How's it holding up?" I shout in Lestrade's direction over the horrid banging as I go to take hold of my fourth box.

"Not very well?" he exclaims back, his voice heavy with disbelief at the casualness of my inquiry. I grit my teeth, acknowledging how unnecessary of a gesture it was in the first place, then drop the box on top of the other three, pausing for a moment with my hands braced on the top of the stack to let myself breathe. I allow myself ten seconds' worth of rest, too much time that seems to pass in an instant anyways, then dart back for my fifth round.

"This isn't going to work," Molly moans.

"Don't say that," I implore, but she just shakes her head, breathing heavily and squeezing her eyes shut. Her face is deadly pale, and she looks almost like she's going to pass out. I hesitate, on the verge of asking if she's alright, then decide that I can't afford to do so. She'll just have to manage, and she's stronger than I give her credit for—after all, she's gotten this far.

She's right, of course—this _isn't _going to work, and Lestrade and I both know perfectly well, a fact communicated in a brief, terse glance between us. But resisting gives us something to do, a way to try and believe that there's a chance of us surviving this. And even if we don't—well, at least we'll go down fighting.

It was always going to be like that for me, I suppose. A warrior's death. Ever since going to Afghanistan… I was sure, for a while, that I'd die there, as a soldier. A doctor, perhaps, but a soldier nonetheless. _Go down fighting. _That was my plan. And now it seems like that plan is alarmingly close to being realized, though being hunted down by a demon in a random warehouse wasn't exactly how I envisioned it.

I imagine that people will find our bodies, eventually—perhaps after several days, when they're truly starting to smell bad, or even once they're well into the decaying process in a matter of weeks. There'll be blood everywhere, I imagine, attracting flies. We'll probably be identified soon enough as the three missing from London. John Watson, Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. All associated with Sherlock Holmes, murderer of his own landlady. There won't be any doubt at that point that he's gone mad, that he's loose and killing ruthlessly. My only futile hope is that perhaps he'll be satisfied after ending me, that he won't go after Mycroft or any of his other relatives that I've scarcely heard mention of.

Perhaps he'll track down Moriarty. That thought is puzzling, because I can't imagine who I'd want to win. Despite myself, I can't help but be inclined to think that I'd prefer a victory by Sherlock. Even in the end, he'd still be himself, to some degree. His own consciousness… his own mind? His own _body, _at the very least. Aspects of him, however small, would remain firmly _Sherlock, _and as long as there's anything Sherlock about him, I'd despise the thought of him being cut down by his single greatest enemy.

"_John!_" Molly screams.

"I'm _doing _it!" I yell in frustration, turning around from the box that I'd briefly hesitated over. Then I see—her cry wasn't prompting me to move faster at all. She's flying backwards, choking on terrified sobs as the door bursts open, knocking my pathetic pile of boxes off to the side, where they scatter like dice. Lestrade slams against the wall, fumbling with his gun. Everything seems frozen, and the air hums with electricity that, I realize a moment later, is quite material. A low, growling rumble, like the impatient stomach of some great beast, seems to creep from the barely-visible horizon, hissing through the dark clouds, and it suddenly explodes in a furious clap of thunder, matched by a sheet of pure white lightning illuminating the landscape. Sherlock is silhouetted there, his shirt torn and his hair wild. He doesn't look any different than he did outside St. Bart's—his coat and scarf are still absent, and somehow that makes it worse rather than better. He looks how he did at home, exposed, _comfortable._

He looks just like I remember him.

The crackling thunder dies down—it's still not raining, though I can see what look like gusty clouds of water in the distance. Sherlock is completely still, and—oh, God—his eyes, they're _normal, _showing none of the black that I've half-grown used to. They look absolutely like him, like _Sherlock, _pale grey-green with a faintly blue light to them, and they pierce me to the core, pin me in place as he fluidly advances inside the warehouse. The light bulb begins to flicker wildly, and his face jumps in and out of darkness, long shadows dancing under his eyes, patterning his forehead and accentuating his cheekbones. He looks dark, _frightening, _but I still can't move, can't escape his eyes. Does it mean anything—the normal-colored irises, could it possibly indicate that he's free somehow, that he managed to escape the demon's influence…?

Then Lestrade's bullet rips through his shirt, tearing the flesh underneath, but not a single drop of blood escapes the wound. And I know that it's still in there, controlling him, rendering him inhuman. I know I should run, but I can't, I just can't. In what seems like a flash, he's suddenly right up next to me, and I have to tilt my head up to get a proper view of him. His eyes, normal though they may be, seem to practically glow with energy, gleaming every time the lights flicker menacingly.

"Sherlock," I whisper.

"John, you idiot!" Lestrade calls in horror, but neither he nor Molly dares to approach. I don't even process his words, just keep staring at Sherlock, as he seems to evaluate me.

Finally, his lips move, his jaw opens and he murmurs words, in that perfectly familiar, cello-toned voice that forcibly reminds me of a hundred warm nights inside Baker Street, the haunting chords of his rich violin music, the smirk on his face after a particularly brilliant deduction and the way he'd always hold the yellow tape up for me and crime scenes. My chest throbs painfully, and my mouth feels awfully dry.

"You think that it's not me," he says quietly, thoughtfully. More thunder snarls in the distance, but it's low, steaming rather than explosive. "I can see it, John, even now. I haven't changed… I can still tell things about you, read them in a frightfully clear manner."

I shake my head vaguely, but he goes on, seeming to hypnotize me with his voice.

"You haven't eaten since our little argument… you three fled the hospital almost immediately… it was Donovan, wasn't it? She came to tell you, of course she did… stopped at that motel overnight… the salt was clever, but you always have been a practical man, haven't you? Something I've admired about you… those two, on the other hand… idiots without advantage…"

"Don't _listen _to him!" Lestrade shouts out to me again, presumably provoked by Sherlock's casual degrading of him.

"Shut _up!_" Black flickers in the detective's eyes as he whirls around to face the policeman, his lips drawn back intimidatingly from his teeth. Lestrade stumbles backwards in response, raising his gun but not firing. Snorting in disgust, Sherlock turns back to me, his eyes normal once more. The light bulb gives a particularly intense twinge, casting us into darkness for nearly a full five seconds before dully illuminating the scene once again.

"It's always been me, John," Sherlock promises quietly. "I'm the one who agreed to live with you, I'm the one who would always… impress you with my deductions… we were at the pool together, and now you want to _murder _me? Use your mind, now… who's the real traitor in this situation?"

"You killed Mrs. Hudson," I rasp, trying not to think about how horribly my heart is aching, how desperately I want to be away from this all, for my life to be back, for our landlady to be back. "You killed Donovan. You're… insane, you're a monster."

"A monster," he repeats softly, tilting his head and stretching out the word as if considering its value. "I am many, many things, John, but a monster isn't one of them… I would have been happy. Content to stay with you until you died, then I'd be off on my way… possibly to get a new vessel… not all _demons _are evil, though, that's a bit… _racist, _one could say." The corner of his mouth twitches up in that smirk, that wonderful, torturously unfair smirk, and I'm paralyzed as he continues on his quiet monologue. "I'd gladly be Sherlock Holmes for you. You'd never be any the wiser… that was what we had, John. That's what we were going to have."

"Can we still have it?" I ask, ridiculously, stupidly. Because I want it, more than anything. Want to be able to forget this whole damn mess and go back to the life that we had before, however insane it might be.

His gaze is almost sad, for just the briefest moment, before it ices over and becomes coldly impenetrable. "It's too late now," he whispers in an almost apologetic tone. He's close enough for his breath to ghost over my lips, and, somehow, I'm not uncomfortable. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm still bound by his stare, still can't bring myself to move. He's close enough for me to see every miniscule detail of his luxuriously colored irises, his long, dark lashes, the paler hair of his eyebrows.

He's unarmed, but I'm absolutely sure that I'm about to die.

And yet somehow, I can't bring myself to care. Even Lestrade and Molly—who will surely go immediately after me—seem insignificant. Nothing matters, because Sherlock is here—demon or no demon, it's Sherlock, and we're together again, we'll be together as my life ends. Just like it was meant to be.

I can almost smile.

Then the shot rings out through the empty warehouse—for a second, I think that it's just a particularly violent bang of thunder, but then I see the shock in Sherlock's eyes, wide confusion shining bright for a long moment as he jerks slightly, lips parted, swaying on his feet. Then the light leaves his face all at once, and he folds to the ground, not so much as twitching as his slim figure crumples like a puppet with the strings cut. I'm left staring at the entrance to the warehouse, where two men stand outlined against the thundery backdrop. At first, the figures are blurry, but lightning darts across the sky, and I can see them clearly—one is average height, the other taller even than Sherlock, both lean-muscled and fierce-eyed. The shorter of the two is holding up a faintly smoking gun with a meticulously steady arm, his lips pressed together and his eyebrows drawn tight. His chin tilts back slightly as he lowers the weapon, and I can't help but gape at the duo, even more so when the gun-bearing one speaks, his voice low and accented American.

"John Watson?"

I nod shakily, my gaze drifting down to Sherlock for the first time. He's splayed on his back, arms and legs crookedly spread on the cement, his eyes wide and blank and a pool of deep crimson blood staining his white shirt.

"That's… yes… that's me," I manage to get out, my voice frighteningly faint.

"Leave the body," the American man instructs gruffly, "and come on out. We've got a lot to explain, and last I checked there was a twenty-four hour diner nearby. Everything sounds better over coffee." With that, he turns around and starts outside, swinging the pistol carelessly between his fingers. His companion indicates that I follow, as well as Lestrade and Molly, who have been looking on in terrified wonder this whole time. Numbness clawing at my insides, I force myself to step over Sherlock's corpse and follow them, not daring to look down at his horribly human eyes one more time.

* * *

"Sam Winchester," are the first words out of the taller man's mouth, ten minutes later at the grungy table of a tiny café a ways farther down the road. Steaming paper cups of grayish-looking coffee sit between the five of us—Lestrade, Molly, and I all bunched onto one side of the booth, the mortician shivering excessively, and the two Americans comfortably situated in the other seat. "This is Dean."

"Who _are _you?" Lestrade demands.

"The guys who just saved your asses," Dean replies grimly, taking a swig of his coffee and scowling at the taste. "Damn, these Brits really don't know how to make anything but tea, do they?"

Sam shoots him a meaningful glance, and he shuts his mouth with an impatient eye roll, letting the other continue. "We're hunters," he explains carefully, leaning forward and meeting my gaze earnestly. "This is the kind of thing we do on a regular basis—usually in the US, but you were a special case."

"This kind of—you're _demon hunters?_" Lestrade questions disbelievingly, his tone quavering.

"Quieter," Sam urges, glancing around nervously despite the café's empty state and keeping his own voice low. "Well, yes—not just demons, but… creatures, supernatural creatures."

I barely digest his words. It's hard enough trying to recover from Sherlock's death to try and process anything else. Every sound I hear is vaguely ringing, and I can't quite bring anything into full focus. Those last moments keep flashing before my eyes—his face overcome by surprise, his body slumping away, Sam and Dean framed in the doorway. Over and over… my stomach won't cease churning, and I don't even want to think about the coffee sitting in front of me, slowly losing its already sparse steam.

"Demons are actually remarkably common," Sam continues, folding his hands on the tabletop. "But rarely are they as powerful—and, well, unusual—as the Holmes brothers."

"Holmes _brothers?_" I repeat scratchily.

"Right. Mycroft and Sherlock—their vessels are so old, nobody knows whether they took the names from them, or if they're what the demons themselves were called—or the souls that they used to be, that is, before dying."

None of this makes sense of me, and I'm rather grateful when Molly questions as to one of the particularly puzzling points. "V-vessel?" she questions nervously, and I realize that I recognize the word—Sherlock used it himself, speaking to me.

_I would have been happy. Content to stay with you until you died, then I'd be off on my way… possibly to get a new vessel…_

"Human body," Dean explains boredly. "Demons' true forms—they're like smoke, really nasty black smoke. If they want to interact with people or really get anything done at all, they've got to possess humans."

"The man calling himself 'Sherlock Holmes' has been a demon for years," Sam continues. "Him and his brother both. They're strange, though—_peaceful. _They seem like they really do want nothing more than to lead normal lives… which is, well, unheard of. But for all intents and purposes… they really did seem to be on the good side."

"Side of the angels," Dean mutters with a small, dry laugh. Sam doesn't bother to shoot him another glare, and I'm too confused and miserable to be offended by his carelessness.

"He wasn't fine, though," I point out, trying to stay calm, rational. "Sherlock wasn't fine. He murdered our landlady… and a police sergeant."

"That he did," Sam agrees regretfully. "I'm assuming that you found out his identity somehow—black eyes, at a guess?"

"Exactly."

"Well, he could hardly stay docile with you really knowing about him. Of course there was a chance of your dismissing the obvious sign, but he wasn't taking any chances. He had to get to you, Dr. Watson… he had to kill you, so that nobody else knew."

"Seems a bit counterproductive," I mumble.

Dean laughs, but Sam stays straight-faced. "Very. But they have bad tempers, demons."

"Hellish, you might say," his partner offers, and I can't help but wonder just how many demon possessions Dean's dealt with to be able to undertake them with such a lighthearted attitude. I envy him, really.

Sam ignores him. "They have bad tempers, and they can get out of control quite easily, if they're properly provoked—for example, scared. And Sherlock Holmes was obviously terrified when he knew that you realized who—_what—_he was. He blindly went with his instincts, and demons' instincts are pretty much invariable—kill anything considered a threat."

"Even Mrs. Hudson…"

"Even your landlady, yes. And he was going to take you, too, if Dean and I hadn't gotten there in time."

I take a few seconds to absorb this in silence, half-listening to the tinny pop music playing over speakers at the front of the empty café. A clock ticks in a corner, signaling close to five in the morning. I haven't been less tired all night, though. Molly and Lestrade remain quiet, and after about a minute, I speak again.

"You shot him with a gun. I thought that demons could only be exorcised, not… killed. And definitely not just with a bullet."

"I shot him, nothing happened," Lestrade pipes up.

"Yeah, well, this is a very special gun." This time, it's Dean who takes the speech reins, and to my surprise, he no longer sounds in any way joking. One of his hands slips under the table, and even though I can't see it, I can guess that it's fingering the weapon. "Kills anything—demon, werewolf, Wendigo, whatever."

"Werewolf," Molly repeats faintly, just as Lestrade chokes, "_Wendigo?_"

"Anything," Dean repeats affirmatively.

_Including demons. _I suddenly feel half-embarrassed for our pathetic setup with the ruined Devil's Trap and the salt bags—not to mention the garden cultivators. I can't bring myself to really care, though—can't bring myself to really care about anything, damn it. I shake myself physically—a small, jolting twitch, as though the action can drag me out of the darkness sucking at my mind. Nothing happens, though, and I take a deep breath, looking down at the table. Dean and Sam still seemed poised to answer any questions we have, but I need a moment to myself, and I stand up, muttering "toilet" under my breath before heading to just that place, through a small door in the back of the one-room café.

It's quieter here, and nobody's looking at me, which is nice. I lock the door quickly and slump down to the cold tile floor, leaning against the wall with a long sigh.

_Sherlock is dead._

I feel bad. I feel _so _bad, and even worse for the fact that doing such seems wrong somehow. Sherlock was a _demon, _literally a creature of Hell, and yet here I am, grieving him. God, I am grieving him. I don't allow myself to think about him, not fully—not his voice, not his music, not his deductions or the precise look he pulled off when clothed in coat and scarf. Any fragment of him that manages to leak through my carefully constructed mental barriers is painful, horribly painful. It's not right, is it? Not right that I care this much about his being gone.

_Nothing to mourn, when he was never here in the first place._

But he _was, _and that's the problem. _Peaceful demons, _as Sam Winchester had said. The Sherlock I knew was absolutely the Sherlock who died, regardless of his, well, species. The one who had saved me at the pool… the one I offered to die for.

I can still recall that—the pool—as clearly as if it happened yesterday. The pounding fear in my own chest, the teasing lilt of Moriarty's voice—but, more than anything else, the _fear _in Sherlock's face. Genuine fear… fear for _me._

He really cared about me, and yet he was going to kill me.

Out of nowhere, I can't stand my isolation any longer. I stand up roughly, unlocking the door with shaky fingers and catching a brief glimpse of myself in the mirror over the dirty sink. My face is pale, my eyes wide and dark in my waxy face, and my lips are trembling. I look _weak, _so damn weak. Hating myself—hating everything—I look away angrily and step out, heading back to the booth where the other four sit in silence and resuming my spot on the seat. A sudden question flies to my tongue as Sam glances up at me, and I don't hesitate before asking it.

"Mycroft. You said he was a demon, too. What happened to him?"

"Dead," Sam informs me. "Found dead several days ago, under suspicious circumstances. That was what brought us here in the first place, matter of fact. The demon was exorcised from him, leaving behind a corpse. In some old parking ramp. The whole deal was there—Devil's Trap, salt, the works. Nobody knows who did it, but apparently a woman's gone missing—his secretary, of a type."

"Dark hair, nice body," Dean offers from over his coffee.

"Nobody seems to know her real name," Sam explains.

The image they're suggesting comes to mind immediately—_Anthea, _as she had called herself, the woman who'd sat in the backseat of the car that delivered me to Mycroft's location the night of the taxi driver case. So she had known that Mycroft was a demon? I can't help but wonder how she found out, but I suppose I'll never know now.

"In any case," the young man goes on, "we found out about that from some contacts, decided to do some research. We learned immediately about his brother Sherlock and got a bit suspicious. While later, two murders and three disappearances cropped up—well, we came here as soon as possible."

"All the way to England?"

"Got off the plane and drove right over," Dean confirms, looking vaguely sick at the memory. "Haven't slept for, what, thirty hours now?"

"Most people take advantage of the flight time," Sam points out lowly.

"Shut _up._"

I watch their antics with a sort of detached fascination. "So you're just going to be going back to America, then, after all this."

"We can give you a ride back to London first, if you'd like," Sam offers. "That's where the nearest airport is, in any case, and we really should be getting back home."

"Gonna be broke after those tickets," Dean grumbles. "Powerful-ass demons cost a lot when they're also internationally located."

I don't really have any way to respond to that—I can't exactly apologize for Sherlock's location and its negative effect on their budget. Nobody _asked _them to come over here, after all. "I… guess a ride would be nice," I say instead, deciding to keep it simple, accept their offer. "I don't really know what any of us are going to do with ourselves once we get back, though."

"Life goes on," Sam offers with a shrug, looking sympathetic. "Trust me, I know it's hard, but there's nothing to do but try and fit back into your regular lifestyle. Do your best to forget, I suppose. Most people do, in one way or another… work out some sort of psychological thing, trick themselves into thinking that it was a perfectly human that caused whatever event tore them or their family apart."

_Family. _I have a family to go back to, more or less. Harry, at least. I'm admittedly not so reluctant to ask her for housing help at this point—her drinking and Clara problems seem suddenly insignificant next to the fact that Sherlock was, well, a _demon. _If there's one thing I know for sure about Harriet Watson, it's that she's absolutely human.

Besides, I have Molly and Lestrade. I can't help but think that we're all going to be bound a little tighter after this, however grudgingly—the doctor, the coroner, and the policeman. Who knows—as a team, and with the shared residue of Sherlock's brilliant mind, we might even be able to solve a few crimes on the level of the world's only consulting detective myself. We're not going to go our separate ways, in any case. That's impossible, and they surely know it as well as I do.

"Alright," I finally agree, and I mean it. _Alright. _Sherlock's loss is awful, of course it is. But I've been through death before—lots of death, much more than the average man. I'll recover, however long that takes. And, hopefully, I won't have any more demonic encounters throughout my life. There's no reason to cut myself entirely from the world of crime. After all, I've formed plenty of bonds within it, not just with Sherlock.

_I can make it through this. _We all can.

"Good?" Sam asks, and I nod, Lestrade and Molly doing the same. "Great. We should probably get out of here."

"Agreed, this crap is awful." Dean casts a disgusted look in the direction of his coffee cup, then reaches into a back pocket, pulls out a wad of crumpled currency, and makes to place them on the table before Sam's hand intercepts his.

"England, Dean, England."

"…Right." He whisks back the money, which I now recognize as dollar bills.

"I can pay," I offer quietly, taking out my wallet and removing a couple of pound coins, which I drop thoughtlessly on the tabletop, not bothering to count them out exactly.

"Thanks," Sam murmurs gratefully, and the two Winchesters rise in what seems to be a perfectly coordinated motion. I follow suit, as do Molly and Lestrade, and we all file down the room and out the door, into the cool night. The storm's faded away, leaving a faint drizzle behind, and my hair is dampened but not soaked by the time we reach their car, a sleek, black 1960s Chevrolet Impala.

"You alright?" Dean's the one to ask, glancing towards me. His eye is on my leg, the stiff one that I hoist purposefully into the air with every step. "Looks like you've got a bit of a limp there."

I consider the leg in an almost thoughtful way, marveling at its lack of maneuverability. "Nothing to worry about," I finally reply, shaking my head dismissively. "It's been there for ages… I'm used to it."


End file.
